


Little One

by Fudgyokra



Category: Teen Titans: The Judas Contract (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pedophilia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-15 00:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: On the last day of the mission, Slade takes advantage of the fact he has Robin fully at his mercy, or lack thereof.





	Little One

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've read the warnings so you're not surprised when what I said was gonna happen actually happens. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ There's no happy ending to this fic, but you can assume the remainder of the events of TJC occur afterward.
> 
> Anyway, there are mentions of Tara/Slade and past Dick/Slade but for me that kinda comes with the territory.

Damian doesn’t know how he wound up in Slade Wilson’s hideout, strung up by rigid layers of rock encasing his limbs, but a lack of knowledge and the smallest sting of indignity did not mean it wasn’t happening. He can feel the sharp edges digging into his knees and forearms alike, which is a nuisance, but not nearly as awful as Slade baiting him, standing barely four inches away with his masked face too damn close.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” he says. Damian wants to punch him, but in the absence of ability he spits straight in his eye instead. With some gratification, he watches him wipe it away with a sound of disgust. “I didn’t think I had to remind you that you’re the one in restraints here.”

“I will grant you that, but the moment I break free, you will be more than sorry.”

Slade snorts once, turns his back. “How do you plan on making that happen?”

Damian sneers, tries to wrench free with no leeway, then finally settles down and accepts his imprisonment. “Nightwing and the rest will find you and make you _suffer._ ”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Slade says in his best comic book villain tone. It makes Damian want to vomit, just a little bit. “Trust me when I tell you I have ways of getting what I want.”

And, oh, Damian can’t not fall for that. He lifts an eyebrow in haughty judgement, his lips into a smirk befitting of the teenager he is and says, “That is what they all say.”

“I have a feeling you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Slade replies easily. He puts a hand to Damian’s face, curls his fingers around the jaw just tightly enough to hurt. “If you don’t watch what you say, I might just take care of you before you make it back to the rest of those insufferable Titans.”

The threat holds promise, and Damian can’t tell whether the thrill that shoots up his spine is good or bad. The instant Slade retreats and leaves a cold air of absence in his wake, Damian decides that it’s definitely bad. “The only reason I have not endeavored to kick your ass is because I am confident in my team’s abilities to destroy you.”

Slade laughs once; a gruff, ill-humored bark. He takes three deliberately loud stomps back toward Damian that make his heart hammer and lifts the mask to regard him with a full face of cruelty. “I hope you are, so it is that much worse when they fail, and I get to do as I please with you.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

When Slade grins, Damian pretends he doesn’t understand why, even if there’s a second thrill that goes through his body just like the first, wanting to make its presence uncomfortably known. The two of them engage in a stare-off, which lasts for only a handful of seconds before Slade narrows his eye, wraps a hand around the back of Damian’s thigh, and yanks forward until the limb is taut against the shards of earth holding him bound. It’s uncomfortable but not unbearable, and Damian can tell Slade expects more from him, so he doesn’t bite. “I am fundamentally unsure of the threat occurring here,” he says snidely.

Slade hums. “I bet you are, little one.”

He wholly despises the pet name but ignores it in favor of something more fruitful to the conversation. “Do not be mistaken: It isn’t because I do not understand, but because I do not believe in your ability to execute what you have in mind.”

In a falsely docile way, Slade’s smile softens. Damian knows it’s a trap—that his words were taken as a challenge. Rising to it, Slade says, “Kid, I’ll have you know my execution is always on par with what my victim expects.”

Damian thinks of Terra, tries to shut out the image of her face, and fails. “Can I count this as your confession?”

“If you’d like,” Slade answers, unruffled. “But you might not live to see it punished.”

They’re at a stalemate until Slade reaches for the badge on Damian’s chest—the emblazoned ‘R’ of which he is proud—and yanks it off, stitching and all, in one pull. He holds it up to his face, as large a trophy as Robin’s apprehension, and drops it on the floor.

Damian sneers, putting the full force of his disgust behind it. “I hope you will be notifying my tailor about that.”

“Certainly…” Slade surprises him with large hands at his collar, pulling on the material there until it rips all the way down with a dismaying tearing sound. Then, he hooks fingers into the place where Damian’s belt meets his uniform and traces the fabric to the entry point, where he unlatches it.

Damian absorbs the reality of the situation with a grunt. He’s careful not to change his face when Slade slides his pants below his hips and down his thighs, all the way until the rocks deny them any more distance. “Terra and I would make a fantastic support group,” he says, as a scathing joke.

Slade chuckles, buries his fingertips into the flesh of Damian’s hips, and leans so close his mouth is touching the pulse point just under his jaw. “I’m sure,” is all he says before he lowers his lips an inch and bites, gaining a cruelly embarrassing yelp for his efforts. “How old are you, Damian?” he asks without inflection. If anything, it’s irritatingly non-judgmental.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Seventeen, like our dear Terra?” Slade guesses. “Sixteen?”

Damian pales, doesn’t take the bait. “Yes,” he lies, “right within your range.”

But the way he says it makes Slade hum thoughtfully, even pause in his ministrations. “Younger?” he probes, gripping the waistband of Damian’s boxer shorts in such a way that the fabric strains. “I’m not exactly keen on any younger than that,” he explains, as if that exonerates him. As if he’ll stop.

“I don’t see how that matters,” Damian says. “Once a pedophile, always a pedophile.”

Slade frowns at him seriously, infuses all the violence of his innuendo into one gaze, and yanks the undergarments down. Damian’s exposed, with the frame of his ripped shirt hanging on him like a vest and all else bunched around his knees, yet he still doesn’t change his face. He thinks that’s what turns Slade’s thoughts in the wrong direction, because the man raises his brows knowingly when he gathers Damian’s thin hips into a scathing grip—all nails.

“You want this, don’t you?” he accuses with a poisonous tone. Damian scowls with all his might, but Slade still smirks when he rakes his nails down tender thighs and earns another grunt. In the absence of a reply, he says, “That’s what I thought,” and that’s enough to make the boy’s heart skip a beat. Or two. Slade can’t possibly think that’s true, or it’s all over for Damian’s pride and everything he stands for.

“Right,” he says in a tight voice that was supposed to convey sarcasm but misses the mark. “Just like you thought with Terra.”

Obviously, he’d underestimated the depth of their relationship, because Slade only shrugs one shoulder and says, “I suppose you’re right. Funny how sexual delinquency doesn’t change from gender to gender.”

Before Damian can say another word, Slade’s gloved hand is around his cock, and his voice scrambles up his throat and out of his mouth into a scant whine. There’s interest in Slade’s face at the horrifyingly fast way Damian springs up at the contact, half-erect and awaiting further stimulation. Internally, he seethes at pubescence, at his lack of practice not reacting to touch.

“Good boy,” Slade all but coos into his ear as he strokes him. “Just like the last Robin.”

At the admittance, Damian bristles. Though he doesn’t expect to get an honest answer, he still asks, while Slade is working him with one hand and groping his chest with the other, “I’m not the only one?”

“Oh,” Slade drawls, stepping closer, “are you jealous, little one?”

Damian growls something in response that even he doesn’t hear, because Slade shocks him with one dry finger inside of him, making him hiss and flinch at the contact. What he does get is some semblance of mercy afterward, because Slade reaches for something on a nearby settee that he can tell is an awfully convenient bottle of lubricant.

“Relax, Robin,” he says mockingly. “You’re safe with me.”

Decidedly, he doesn’t speak. He only glowers while Slade slicks his hand and, within seconds, reinserts the initial finger. It pushes in and out in a determined pattern, feeling weirder than he’d ever anticipated it would: A slow drag-and-pull that makes his insides twitch with each odd second. Still, it isn’t as painful as it is strange and so he bares his teeth again and hopes it relays the message of how much he doesn’t approve. It doesn’t have the desired effect, because Slade presents a second finger all too quickly and drills it in alongside the first, which is more painful, but Damian doesn’t rescind his snarl. “I don’t suppose this is a means to an end,” he suggests, which only makes the man move his fingers faster—the opposite of what he wants. “To _what_ end does this lead?” he quickly clarifies.

Slade lifts a brow at him, almost in fascination. “I think you know.”

His grunts, to his chagrin, become fully realized as groans when Slade curls his fingers toward himself and drags them downward in a purposeful motion. The preliminary letters of Damian’s reply come out stuttered thanks to Slade’s fingers pressing against some untouched location within him that make his insides fold in on themselves and his mouth fall open in something he doesn’t want to call a gape.

“Good boy,” Slade purrs. “I knew you’d behave.”

Damian grates out a curse that transforms into more of an abstract exclamation, and he hates that his mouth involuntarily twists into a grimace that looks like it might spell pain and yet is indicative of something far from it. Before he can make his expressions work to his advantage again, his hips twitch forward against the rocks and his will alike, which is all the damning evidence Slade needs to continue his onslaught.

“You’re doing better than your earliest predecessor,” Slade says, only partially conscious of his audience.

At the thought of Dick, Damian’s temper flares. It’s halfway with bald anger and halfway with the subtler emotion of jealousy, which he doesn’t think too hard about, even as he spits out an emphatic, “Fuck you!”

When Slade looks at him next, as full in the face as he can, Damian’s immediate instinct is to cringe, which he shies away from. Slade jabs a third finger inward among the lot, forming at best a sloppy triangle, which continues to open Damian up in a way he can only think of as _wrong._

“Interesting,” Slade comments, “I always assumed you Robins knew each other. I guess it’s true, after all.”

“Incredible presumption,” Damian grits out after sucking in a breath through his teeth. “What a detective you are,” he adds, as a finalizing taunt, before the bunch of fingers reaches far enough inside him to prod at the sensitive spot again. This time it’s worse, because not only do his hips jerk toward Slade again, but his head tilts back in an automatic display of surrender, complete with a guttural groan of _want_ that he can’t hide from, even if he wants to. His face reddens in a way he wishes he could smother down, but this was a subject he wasn’t readily prepared for in all his training.

Slade’s predatory grin all but splits his face.

Damian expected humiliation, not _intent,_ which is what he’s shown when Slade lowers his hands down to his own belt buckle and undoes it with a metallic clatter, a sound Damian knows he’ll remember for quite possibly the rest of his life. Worse still, he feels his breathing hitch in expectant dread. If he can hear it, he knows Slade can, too.

Being caught in a mesh of tattered clothing and dire circumstances was bad enough without the head of Slade’s cock sliding upward against his thigh and then aligning with his entrance. Another sensation—that of leather on his lower back—alerts him to a hand pressing there, forcing his hips into an angle he doesn’t appreciate in terms of both conservation and pride. It stays firmly planted, though, and closely following is the warmth of the rest of Slade’s body.

Despite himself, panic wells in Damian’s system. He’s plagued by swirling thoughts—that this shouldn’t be happening, it shouldn’t be _Slade_ for his first time—but it’s no use.

“Tell your beloved senior Boy Wonder I miss this,” Slade goads, pressing into Damian with a firm enough movement that he feels the resistance of his own skin pulling against it. He gasps, pained, which unfortunately seems only to please Slade.

Then there are fingers digging into his hips once more, along with inch after inch being forced inside him until it finally stops, though by then his breathing is ragged. He leans his head against the wall and grits his teeth against a sound of distress.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Slade gets what he wants, and if the insistence of his movements means anything, what he wants is ownership of an unwilling body. It’s what he achieves when he presses upward with vehemence, denying any sort of reprieve that Damian might have gotten.

Despite the spikes of pain, his mouth falls open in a soundless cry, which his assailant only takes as encouragement.

There is no lightening in the actions while Slade thrusts into him, holding him by the back of the neck now, fingers barely tangling into the curled ends of his hair as he fucks him against the wall in a series of foreign pumping motions that pull a shameful litany of little “ _augh_ ” sounds from Damian.

He wishes the sounds being concocted in his vocal chords would stop, because when Slade drives into the spot that makes his whole body, virginal at it was, convulse powerfully, his abdominal muscles contracting against his better judgement, he cries out in what was alarm as much as pleasure.

It was awful and vindictive when Slade only laughs, a sound that floats above the sounds of flesh on flesh, above even Damian’s regretful panting.

His thighs shudder against the larger ones bearing down as Slade fucks him, splayed out along his front until Damian has no choice but to keep his head tilted back, exposing the entire column of his throat. When fingers curl around it, he chokes out a weak, “ _No,_ ” that goes largely ignored.

There’s a tightening sensation in his pelvis, and each thrust is raw pain ringed with a bolt of pleasure he desperately tries to wriggle away from, without success. Before he can stop it, he makes a sound he’s sickened to realize is a sob. There are tears in his eyes and, worse, down his cheeks when he cums from the foreign stimulation alone, in spite of the splitting pain.

Slade hardly makes a sound the entire time, but when the moment comes, Damian registers a slight catch in the man’s breath that meant he wasn’t far from finishing, and the terror in him didn’t (couldn’t) outweigh the instinctive pull of _want want want_ from the pulsing of the cock inside him.

He silently pleads with an internal system he can’t control that his voice should reside mostly in his throat, but he still lets out another sob at the release flooding through him.

Without preamble, Slade pulls out, leaving Damian slumped over with the strongest urge to sink to his knees. He faces the man with burning hatred evident in his face. “This doesn’t mean you win,” he says, to his horror, with a wavering voice.

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Slade asks. He lowers the mask over his face, turns toward the communicator on his desk, picks it up. “No, Robin. I’m afraid you’ve lost tonight in more ways than one.”

Damian refuses to let the words install themselves in his brain, even when he feels a disgusting, wet trickle running down his inner thighs. He narrows his eyes, fights to put up a more venomous air when he threatens, “The Titans will kick your ass and be back for me by sunrise.”

There’s no response.

The last thing Damian sees before he’s left on his own is the dense metal of the man’s armored back. Slade flicks the lights off, bathing the room in darkness, and shuts the door behind him with hardly a sound.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [relapse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817536) by [freakedelic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic)




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